The Distance Between Us (30 page)

I squeeze his arm again and decide to put Paul out of my mind for the time being, as best as I can. If he returns, I’ll find a way to deal with him then.

“Did you see Eric today?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he grunts into the tabletop. “He even tried to stop your whacko daughter from castrating me in public.”

I wince. “You had a run-in with Caitlin, too?” I release him. “And Eric intervened?”

The top of his head bobs on the table. “Yeah. She was pretending to be pissed because I skipped classes this week, but it was really because I live with you. So I basically told her she was full of shit, and she kicked me out of her room. But before I walked out Eric spoke up and told her he thought she was being unfair.” He turns his face so that his freckled cheek presses against his sleeve. He looks worn out. “She was still yelling at him when I left.”

He closes his eyes. “Then I waited outside to thank Eric after class, but when he saw me, he told me he only said something to her because she was being such a bitch, and not to think we’re still friends because we’re not.” His voice roughens. “That’s why I came home early.”

“Oh, dear.” I take a big swallow of my Irish coffee. It’s really too hot to drink, yet, but I quickly take another, not caring if I scald my mouth. “And here I was, feeling sorry for myself simply because my oldest child threatened me on the porch this morning, and then attempted to run over both of us.”

He lifts his head and gawks at me. “He threatened you?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Well, no, not in so many words.
He just blustered a great deal, and wouldn’t leave until I mentioned the police.”

I push his mug closer to him and tell him to drink, and he complies. A trace of whipped cream ends up on his upper lip.

He licks at it. “So he was already pissed when he saw me.”

“I’m afraid so. I apologize for the poor timing.”

The phone on the wall rings and we both jump in our chairs. Alex stares at it.

“You got a new phone in here.” He removes the makeshift ice pack from his injured hand. “When did you do that?”

“I took the one from Arthur’s office this morning.”

It rings again, and I make no move to answer it.

He manages a grin. “I thought you said you got rid of the one that was in here because phones don’t belong in kitchens.”

I grin back. “I lied, of course. I was embarrassed for destroying it during a tantrum.”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The answering machine in the library finally picks up; my recorded voice floats across the entryway and into the kitchen, greeting the caller in polite, no-nonsense tones.

Another woman’s voice begins speaking after the beep.

“Hi, Hester.” It’s Marla Sorenson, the dean’s secretary. I’d recognize her voice anywhere; she wheezes a great deal. “It’s Marla. Listen, I just got a call from Walter at campus security, saying the police arrested Paul for being drunk and disorderly.” Wheeze. “Apparently he got in a fight with Evan a few minutes ago, and Evan called the cops on him. Walter says Evan has some bruises, and is threatening to press charges, but he’s also pretty drunk, so it may all blow over.” Another wheeze. “Sorry to be the one to tell you, but I thought you should know what was happening.”

She hangs up without saying good-bye.

I suppose I should be grateful for the update, but Marla only called because she enjoys being the bearer of bad tidings. Nothing makes her happier than to ruin someone else’s day.

“Who’s Evan?” Alex asks in the stillness.

I pour more whiskey into my coffee mug. “Evan McCartney.
Paul’s roommate. The clarinet teacher at Carson.” For some reason, an image of Paul as a young man, sitting at my piano, laughing, pops into my mind just then. I shake my head to clear it. “This is a bit of good news for us, I believe.”

“Huh? Why?” Alex cocks his head; he didn’t used to do that. It takes me a moment to realize where he picked that habit up.

Dear God. He’s imitating me. I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified.

I hold out the bottle to him. “Because if Paul’s in jail, he can’t come after you. Or me, either, for that matter. At least until he sobers up and bails himself out, that is.”

He takes the whiskey and pours more in his mug, too. “Maybe we should call the cops, too, and file a complaint. That way he’ll be seriously screwed, and they may keep him for a few days.”

I almost agree, then remember something. “We better not. You could get in trouble for striking him.” I chew on my lip. “Unless we said it was self-defense?”

He perks up for a moment as he considers this, but then his face sags again and he sighs. “I don’t think that will work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I also kicked the shit out of his car.”

I cock my head, too, before I can catch myself. “Did that do much damage, do you think?”

“Yeah, some. I kicked it about five or six times. And I broke his headlight, too, remember?” He unbuttons his flannel shirt and shrugs out of it; he’s wearing a ragged black T-shirt with a quarter-sized hole in the collar.

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Why in God’s name did you do that, by the way? Wasn’t punching him enough?”

He flushes and takes another drink. “I kind of lost control,” he mumbles into his mug.

“Yes, you most certainly did.” I’m torn between affection and irritation. “But I’m sure the judge will be very understanding when you’re hauled into court for assault.”

He hangs his head. “I know. It was stupid. But I just couldn’t help it. He was being such a prick.”

I massage my temples and wonder if I should call my lawyer to
alert him to this latest potential legal snafu. I’m beginning to get a terrible headache. “Is there anything else of Paul’s you feel compelled to break at the moment, besides his nose and his headlight?” I demand peevishly. “His arms and legs, maybe? His dinnerware?”

He looks so woeful that despite everything I almost laugh.

I cease my interrogation. “Oh, Alex.” I take a shaky breath. “What on earth is the matter with the two of us?”

His mouth twitches. “I don’t know.”

We finish our drinks and switch to straight whiskey, and we bat around our alternatives: lawyer vs. no lawyer, police vs. no police, how to protect ourselves vs. trying to make peace with Paul. We get nowhere, because every choice either has a significant downside, or is really no choice at all.

The phone rings again.

“What now?” I mutter.

Once more, I let the answering machine intercept the call. Alex and I are both less tense this time as we wait to see who’s on the other end of the phone; at least the alcohol is having the desired effect.

It’s Oscar Schneider, the oboe instructor at Carson.

“Hello, Hester, it’s Oscar.” His voice is dry and polite, and uncharacteristically nervous. “Could you give me a call when you get a chance? I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me this coming weekend.” There’s a pause. “I’d really enjoy that.”

He gabbles on for a moment, says thank you and hangs up.

Alex and I stare at each other, and I feel myself blushing.

“Damn.” He giggles. “That dude wants to hook up with you, Hester.” He throws back his head and laughs at my discomfiture. “Who is he, anyway? You’ve never mentioned him before.”

I make a face. “Oscar’s an old friend, and I’m sure he’s only interested in a platonic relationship.”

In truth, I’m baffled by this development; Oscar has never once expressed any desire to see me outside of work. Of course, I was never available before this year, and he’s too much of a gentleman to have approached me until it was clear to him that Arthur was permanently out of the picture.

“Uh huh.” Alex reaches for the bottle, which is draining rather quickly. “Do you like him, though? Is he hot?”

I fake a growl. “He’s nearly my age, so ‘hot’ is hardly the word I would use to describe him.” I give him my best wilting glare. “And we have far more serious matters to attend to than Oscar Schneider’s possible sex appeal, don’t you think?”

He’s not intimidated by me at all anymore. His smile doesn’t alter in the slightest. “I think it’s cool, and you should go out with him.”

I snag the bottle back from him, not trusting him to fill our glasses at this point.

“Yes, well, thank you for your input. But I seldom pay attention to dating advice from bare-knuckled brawlers.”

He laughs harder, and I can’t help but smile. It’s lovely to see him enjoying himself for once, even if it’s at my expense.

I refill our glasses, and the phone rings, yet again.

I sigh, annoyed. “I wish people would allow us to drink in peace, don’t you?” I blink at my watch. “After all, it’s nearly one in the afternoon, and they can’t really expect us to be sober at such an ungodly hour.”

Alex nods. “Maybe it’s your boyfriend Oscar again, hoping to catch you in person. Do you want me to answer and make him jealous?”

The machine picks up before I can retort, and Alex mimics the greeting of my recorded voice, matching it word for word:
“Hello, this is Hester Parker’s residence, please leave a message if you would like me to return your call.”

“Very impressive.” I sniff. “Apparently there’s parrot blood in your family’s gene pool.”

The caller begins to speak and I stiffen. “Hello, Hester, it’s Bonnie Norton. Call me back as soon as you get this.” She sounds abrupt and cold. “You need to make an appointment to see me.”

She rings off without any further explanation.

The laughter is gone from Alex’s face; he knows about the free-for-all with Martha following the master class, of course, and Bonnie’s tone just now did not bode well for my future at Carson Conservatory.

“Your boss?” he asks, subdued.

“Yes. The dean.” I feign disinterest. “I fear my days as a piano teacher may be numbered.”

“I thought you said you had tenure. How can they get rid of you?” He’s indignant. “You’re famous, Hester. There’s no way they’ll fire you.”

I snort. “My tenure—and my reputation—may indeed protect me from the consequences of flinging a drink on Martha at a public reception, but I’m not counting on it. In the end, they may not be enough to save my job.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bonnie Norton is a mule of a woman, and if she’s decided she wants me gone, it’s likely she’ll find a way to do it.” I stare at the tawny gold liquid in my glass, admiring its reflective qualities as the sunlight hits it. “Even if she failed to dismiss me, she could make my professional life a daily torment, and I’d eventually be forced to resign of my own free will. I know how she works. I’ve seen her do this sort of thing before, and she always gets what she wants, sooner or later.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, but he gazes at me with compassion, and I have to quell an impulse to cry. The last person to look at me like that was Jeremy. The similarity between the two of them finally hits home, and it’s all I can do to not run around the table and plead with this sweet young man to take me in his arms and comfort me, the way my son might have if he were still alive.

Jeremy had a gift for expressing love. He’s the only one of my children I can say that about. As a little boy a day never passed without him climbing into my lap at least a dozen times in the course of an afternoon, or resting his head on my shoulder in the car, or crawling up beside me on the couch while I was napping. Even when he was in junior high and high school, he was perfectly at ease with embracing Arthur or me in public, right in front of his friends, who wouldn’t be caught dead doing the same thing with their parents. He was especially adept at knowing when I was down, and could be counted on to show up at my side, like magic, whenever I needed a reminder that I wasn’t alone, or forgotten, and never would be.

He didn’t lose this capacity, either, as he got older. I remember one time, specifically, shortly after he began teaching at the conservatory, when he came to find me in my studio. I had just received news that a former student of mine, Sarah Lawson, had won the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, and had been invited to do a series of prestigious recordings as a result. Though I was honestly thrilled for Sarah—and had strutted about like an obnoxious peacock in front of all my colleagues—I was feeling more than a bit sad, too. Her success was an unexpectedly difficult reminder of what I had once been as a pianist, and would never be again. But I said nothing to anybody about this, and I believe nobody in the world knew what I was feeling. Nor did I have any intention of telling a soul.

But Jeremy knew anyway.

He showed up at my studio that day, and walked in, unannounced. I was sitting at my desk, pawing through a score, and I looked up and greeted him, as cheerfully as I always did. He said nothing in reply; he only stared across the room at me for a moment, then walked over to stand behind my chair. I tilted my head back and started to ask what was the matter, but before I could speak he leaned down and put his arms around me, very gently. His cheek pressed into mine, and he held me, and he never said a word. But in his silence was understanding, and compassion, and grief for what I had lost. And there was love, too, of course.

I surrendered, then, and let myself cry. There was never any point in dissembling with Jeremy. He always knew what was in my heart, and always would.

It seems Paul and Caitlin may have been partly right, after all, about why I took Alex in.

Oh, Jesus. I miss Jeremy so very much.

I pull myself together. The last thing Alex needs right now is to have a weepy old woman on his hands.

“Oh, well.” I drain my glass in a single gulp. “There’s no sense in worrying about Bonnie at this particular moment.” A silly notion occurs to me. “Do you know how to play the piano?”

“What?” He looks confused. “Where did
that
question come from?”

“Just answer me, boy. Do you play the piano, or not?”

He yawns, long and loud, before replying. He has silver fillings in several of his lower molars. “Not really, no.” He plays with the hole in his collar. “I had a few lessons when I was a kid, but I don’t remember much about it.”

I slap the table lightly and prepare to stand. “Well, come on, then. There’s no time like the present.”